Michael JECKS - The Oath

‘I am sorry, Sir Baldwin,’ Thomas said after a few moments. He grinned at his wife as she sprang from him and stood at his side once more.

She squeaked as he tried to encircle her waist again, moving out of his reach. ‘Husband,’ she chided, ‘your guest hardly knows where to look!’

‘You’re right, my love,’Thomas said. ‘So, Sir Baldwin, if real war comes here, I shall sell and trade whatever I may once more. As I say, there is always money for a man who is bold enough.’

Baldwin nodded, unconvinced. ‘There are often more men with determination who possess weapons and help themselves to all that they can,’ he pointed out. He did not want to say so, but there were enormous risks for young women like Madame Redcliffe. She was a short, but slender woman in perhaps her middle twenties, with a round face that was particularly attractive. She had a pale, peach-coloured complexion, lovely clear blue eyes, a broad, intelligent forehead, and full, soft lips that seemed made for smiling.

In many ways, she was the picture of desirability, and yet Baldwin could think only of his own wife, so many miles away, surely worrying about him and what he might be doing. He missed her, his lovely Jeanne. He had loved her since the first moment he had set eyes upon her in Tavistock all those years ago.

He looked again at Roisea and this time saw the fear in her eyes, while her mouth smiled.

‘Madame Redcliffe,’ he said gently, ‘I am most grateful for the use of your room.’

‘I am at your service, Sir Baldwin. It is very kind of you to honour us with your company, when you could have rested in any of the inns in the city itself.’

‘But such inns would not have so charming a hostess,’ Baldwin said with a slight bow.

‘You will stay with us a little?’

Baldwin glanced at her husband. ‘I fear I must return to my own home. My wife will be missing me, and I would prefer to be there in case of unrest.’

‘It is difficult when you have responsibilities,’ she said, and threw a look at her husband that Baldwin could not comprehend.

Women were so difficult to understand – he had spent too much of his youth in the convent without female companionship.

‘You will stay one day, at least?’ Redcliffe said. ‘I wouldn’t want to think you had to set off so soon, without any rest.’

Baldwin could feel Jack’s eyes on him as he said politely, ‘I am most grateful to you, Master Thomas, but no. I must return. At this time, I have a responsibility to my wife, but also to the King.’

‘You are a supporter of the King, then?’ Roisea asked. Her lips were parted, as though she awaited his answer with an especial keenness.

It was not a question he had expected, and Baldwin felt his brow crease in a fleeting frown. ‘I have given my oath to him, and I owe him my service as my Lord. Just as any knight must who holds lands from the King.’

‘You are a man of honour,’ Redcliffe said, pushing his wife away so that he could reach the food. ‘Come, Sir Baldwin, please eat.’

Bristol Castle

In the castle, Robert Vyke was happy to find that he was not to be held in one of the cells. All too often, as he knew, a city’s castle would contain the very best facilities for holding men – cold, damp chambers near the moat, plenty of smiths keen to show their skills at producing fetters of different types, and quite a lot of men who were equally enthusiastic about methods of enquiry involving the use of hot metal and pliers.

For Robert, the idea of the torture chamber was one that returned to his mind that morning when he was told that he was needed. He was called by a Sergeant with foul breath and a peculiar-looking beard which had a large gap in the left side of his jaw. When Vyke looked more closely, he saw that the man had suffered a ferocious wound there; the skin was all scarred, as though some weapon had torn away an inch-wide section of flesh.

‘Horse kicked me,’ the man said, seeing the direction of his attention.

‘In a battle?’

‘No,’ the Sergeant said, scowling. ‘I was grooming the bastard.’

Vyke was unsure what to say, so he followed the Sergeant out from the garrison’s sleeping chamber, where he had been installed for the night, along a short passageway, up two flights of stairs, and into a long, warm, rectangular room.

It was heated by an immense fire in the left-hand wall, and the glorious light illuminated rich hanging tapestries of hunting scenes, and a number of stools, chairs and two large tables. At one, a smiling older man was sitting, while opposite was a thin, grey-faced old fellow with wiry frame and grizzled hair. At the fireplace stood Sir Stephen, the Coroner.

‘Get in here,’ the Coroner said. His face was blank, just as it had been at the inquest. He was a strange serious man, who was either amused and jolly, or completely serious, concentrating on matters of importance. Now, clearly, he was considering something that gave him little cause for amusement.

The man with the smile was the Earl of Winchester, Vyke knew. He had heard about him from some of the garrison last night. Not a bad man, this one – unlike his son, by all accounts.

‘Come in, fellow. Come in. Now, the good Sir Stephen has said to us that you are bright, and capable of thinking for yourself. Is that right?’

‘I suppose so, sir.’

‘Good. You come from where?’

‘I’m from East Henret, sir. Oxfordshire.’

‘Oh. You’re a long way from your home, then.’

‘Sir. The men in the vill were arrayed and mustered and marched off. That was a while ago. We went east towards London, then we were turned about and came here instead.’

‘And your companions?’

‘They went on, sir. I was left behind because of my leg,’ he added, pointing.

‘You are loyal to your master?’

The impatient, grey-faced man interrupted him before he could reply. ‘You are loyal to your King, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Vyke said. He didn’t like the direction of the conversation.

‘You may be able to help the King in his trials now,’ the man said briskly. ‘We need to send him a message. Can you do that for us? Can you take him a message?’

‘I suppose so, sir.’

‘Good. Do this, and you’ll have the gratitude of the King, the Earl here, and of me, Sir Laurence Ashby.’

‘I’d gladly help, but I’d need directions. I don’t know this country.’

‘It should be easy enough to follow the King’s trail,’ the Earl said.

Sir Stephen folded his arms. ‘This is very important, Vyke. We have to make sure that the message gets through to him. You understand me?’

‘Yes. I understand, sir.’

‘Good. Then you can go now.’

‘One minute,’ the Earl said. ‘How bad is your leg? Can you use it for a long walk, do you think?’

‘If I need to. The cut was deep, but it’s not gone foul, my lord.’

‘You’re sure of that, are you? Has anyone looked at it?’

‘A priest did, my lord. He seemed very competent and–’

‘My friend Sir Stephen Siward here says you were hurt by a bent dagger: it sounds a curious accident. It is usually enough for a man to fall into a pothole without the additional encumbrance of a dagger inside. Do you have the dagger here?’

‘It is in my pack, my lord,’ Vyke said.

‘Good. Can you fetch it for our friend?’ the Earl said to the Sergeant, who still stood behind him. The Sergeant nodded and hurried from the room.

Sir Stephen pushed himself away from the wall and walked to the table where the Earl was sitting. He poured himself a goblet of wine from a pewter jug, but made no effort to offer it to the Earl or the other man, to Vyke’s surprise. It was almost as though the Coroner thought himself superior to the others in the chamber. Either that or he was so distraught at the idea of the coming days that he forgot himself.